Page 14 of Harpy of the Ton
“Oh.”
“Oh?” Lawrence repeated. “Are you indulging in some sort of game? Have you…”
His voice trailed away as his gut twisted with anticipation.
Surely he hasn’t…
“What were you doing in the back garden?” Lawrence asked.
The man folded his arms.
“Tell me!”
“I was followin’ orders.”
Lawrence caught the man’s sleeve. “What orders?”
“I obey orders, I do. Which is more than I can say for others.”
The footman glanced toward the bonfire.
Shit!
Pushing him aside, Lawrence sprinted toward the archway, beyond which the bonfire still burned, crackling and spitting in the afternoon air, the rising heat distorting the air, which rippled and danced.
Protruding from the base of the flames was the head of his rake. Of the handle, there was no sign—it must have long since turned to ash.
“No!” Lawrence ran toward the fire, the heat searing his skin.
“Stay back!” the man cried. “You’ll burn yourself!”
“You should have thought of that before you threw my belongings onto the fire!” Lawrence replied.
He reached for the rake, and a spike of agony tore through his hands as he touched the metal, which was already distorting with the heat of the fire.
“Fuck!”
“There’s no call for that kind of language, mister.”
“Pompous arse!” Lawrence retorted. “You’ll pay for this!”
He circled the bonfire in search of the rest of his belongings. The head of the shovel lay charred at the base, on top of which he caught sight of wisps of charred fabric—all that remained of his jacket.
Then his gut twisted with a ripple of nausea as he caught sight of his precious notebook containing years of work—or what remained of it.
“Dear God—no!” he cried. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? That’s my life’s work you’ve tossed onto the fire! My drawings—my research. All my plans! What am I going to do?”
“You’re going to leave,” the footman said. “I’ve been told to escort you off the estate.”
“What about my fee?”
“You’re not to be paid. Them’s the orders.”
Orders…
Fighting the swell of despair, Lawrence fisted his hands, focusing on the pain in his right hand to fuel a new emotion—dissipating the hot despair until only one emotion remained.
Pure, ice-cold fury.
